


More Fool She

by anonymous_sibyl



Category: Merlin (BBC)
Genre: F/M, Ficathon: One Night Stand
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-02-13
Updated: 2009-02-13
Packaged: 2017-10-03 06:40:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anonymous_sibyl/pseuds/anonymous_sibyl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tonight she is the magic, nothing more than a tool, though of the gods or of Uther she is not sure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	More Fool She

**Author's Note:**

  * For [zvi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zvi/gifts).



> Written for [](http://zvi-likes-tv.livejournal.com/profile)[**zvi_likes_tv**](http://zvi-likes-tv.livejournal.com/) in the One Night Stand Ficathon. Prompt: "_Merlin_, Uther/Nimueh, bitter, possibly while Ygrainne is pregnant." Tremendous thanks to [](http://inlovewithnight.livejournal.com/profile)[**inlovewithnight**](http://inlovewithnight.livejournal.com/) and [](http://alixtii.livejournal.com/profile)[**alixtii**](http://alixtii.livejournal.com/) for the speedy betas.
> 
> This work is licensed under a [Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License](http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/3.0/us/). None of the media or characters written about in my fanfiction belong to me and I make no profit from these works. 

The world is not without balance. Not the simple weighing of good and evil that frightened children cling to when the night is coldest, but the older balances of birth and death, joy and sorrow. Uther is not a man who can understand such things. He desires a world in which he can bring the light that banishes the dark. These thoughts soothe him, conquer the fears he will not admit he has. But Nimueh knows differently. She's shed the blood and the tears, both from her body and by her hand, and she knows that to dismiss them as evil is to slight the gods.

Uther would storm the places of the gods. He holds no fear and has not yet learned proper respect of powers beyond his ken. He is King. He holds ultimate earthly power. And he desires an heir.

"I could order you."

"You could." She drinks deeply from the bejeweled goblet at her hand, a gift from Uther and Ygrainne these years past. "As your friend I would beg that you not."

"And as your friend," here Uther pauses to adjust his leather gloves and raise his own goblet, "I would beg that you do."

"I fear you don't know what you're asking." The panic rises in her throat, turns the wine to vinegar. "Please, Uther." She swallows her fear alongside the now bitter wine. "Please."

"I need an heir, Nimueh. I will pay any price."

That, too, is an old magic. The bargain is struck without her consent, the gods shaping the world to their will. Uther will have his heir. She can see the child in her mind's eye, hear the chanting of his deeds, and scent the blood of his making. So much blood that Camelot is stained red with it.

"I need nothing from you but what I now have: your friendship. Pledge me that, Uther, and you shall have your son."

"My son?"

Uther rises, hesitates as if he's forgotten how to move his limbs. Strange to see a warrior such as he stumble but stumble he does before pulling her from her chair, crushing her in his arms, and pouring his gratitude in her ear.

Nimueh turns her face from his to hide her sorrow. She needn't have bothered. Uther's joy is such that even looking into her eyes he can see not a thing but the child she will help birth in blood.

 

Even the guards of a king defer to a sorceress. They stand aside and let her pass, entering Uther's chambers without question. She is garbed in magic, it is woven into her hair and draped over the red silk that is half-covering her body. To the guards she is terrifying. She understands that fear; she is also terrified of herself and what she will do this night.

She does not ask Uther if he is certain, the time for deliberations has passed and even if he were to have changed his mind the gods will not turn back from their path. They want this as much as he. She doesn't understand their reasons nor does she need to. Tonight she is the magic, nothing more than a tool, though of the gods or of Uther she is not sure.

"Nimueh?" Uther's face as he looks up from the table is at first confused then hardens into the kingly mask she's come to recognize as signaling his disapproval. "I did not summon you."

"It's time." She whispers words in the old tongue and chokes back a sigh as the spell begins. "Time to make your son."

"Son."

The mask falls away and in his joy Uther appears to her as both more and less than king. She prefers him that way, as if she can somehow pretend this is not the man she calls friend but is just another child of the gods.

"What must I do?"

She hides her fear behind coy laughter. "Surely Uther Pendragon knows how such a thing is accomplished."

"Ygrainne is… unable." When Uther frowns the scar on his forehead is bisected with creases. That seems wrong to her, as if the memory of a wound should not become so a part of you that it can be that easily changed. Nimueh reaches out as if to touch it and he clasps her wrist between his fingers. "You overstep yourself, Sorceress."

With her free hand she loosens his fingers, one by one. She would not be so crude or uncaring of her flesh to tear herself free. "And you forget, Uther, that in this working you must defer to me."

"Then I ask again, what must I do?"

"The magic has begun," she says, warily watching his eyes and the crook of his mouth, for either could signal a sudden flare of anger. "You made your bargain with the gods and now all that is left is for you and I to consummate it."

"I had thought," he begins, then looks at her for the first time noticing her dress and hair, and the rough jewels she wears. "I had thought there would be a spell."

"There is. There has been. But you begged this of the old gods, Uther, and their ways are the ways of flesh, of blood and spit. We must what we must."

"You… and I? No. This will not stand!"

"Any price," she whispers, and he is trapped.

Another soul less virtuous or more angry than she would use this against him. The great and moral Uther Pendragon sealing a bargain with the old gods by betraying his marriage bed with a young sorceress; it could ruin him and all he has built yet he risks it for a son.

"You tell no one, Nimueh," he threatens as he draws nearer her. "Not of this spell or the means we use to cast it. No one."

"I would go bragging of Uther's bed skills?" she asks, matching him step for step until they are so close she can--and does--finally stroke her fingers across his scar. "Perhaps you will go bragging of mine."

"Enough, Nimueh!" Again he fastens his fingers around her wrist and seeks to take control. "I do what I must but I will take no pleasure in it!"

That angers her. She feels the earth in her very soul and she knows its passion. She will take pleasure where she finds it, more fool she if she doesn't, and she will do all in her power to ensure Uther does the same. This time she does try to tear her wrist from his hand but does not succeed, so in one graceful movement she drops to her knees on the cold stone floor, almost grateful for his hold on her that keeps her from falling.

It's an odd picture they must make, he stiffly holding her arm out from his body and she leaning in to him resting her cheek on his thigh. It takes only seconds for her to gather her courage then she turns her head and exhales over him. Delay won't please Uther this night, so she slides her mouth down over him and takes him in deeply. His hand comes down and tangles in her hair, moving her to the tempo he prefers. It amuses her that for all his protestations he is finding pleasure here with her.

Uther increases the pressure on her wrist until she begins to rise. He pulls her all the way to her feet and spins her around until she can feel the table pressed to her back. "Up." He pushes harder. "On the table, Nimueh."

"Bed?" She gasps out, making it a question.

"No. Not for this. Not for _us_."

He lifts her by her hips and seats her on the edge of the table, then pushes her shoulders until she's lying flat. In reaching for him she knocks his goblet from the table and she watches as the red wine spills to the floor. Blood, she thinks, then turns her attention back to Uther who has lifted her skirt above her hips where the red silk pools like the wine. He rubs her cleft and she bucks her hips in response. His touch feels strange to her, rougher than she'd expected.

"Gloves, Uther? Can you not even touch me?"

"Nimueh." He smiles while continuing to stroke her. She has seen that smile before, when Uther is about to erupt into volcanic anger. "Would you have my all this eve?" He strips the glove from his hand and drops it on her chest. He holds her gaze as he strokes first over her thighs then higher until he again reaches her center and dips his bare finger inside. "Does this please you, witch?"

He spreads her thighs wide and steps between them, thrusting inside her. "And this? Does this please you? Does it please you to know I am taking pleasure in what we do this night?"

He cannot possibly understand so she doesn't answer him. She takes pleasure in the act and in the man thrusting inside her now, a small glimmer of tenderness in his eyes, but she takes no pleasure in the price he will pay. She comes to her climax rapidly and Uther follows her, mind no doubt on magic they've done.

Uther holds himself off her, breathing heavily and balancing on shaking arms. "Rest," she says, stroking his brow, "rest here on me." Their breaths return to normal and all too soon he pushes himself off her and tugs her skirts down over her legs. He extends his hand and she takes it, needing the help to slide off the table and stand.

"Thank you, Nimueh," he says, brushing her hair back and pressing a kiss to her forehead. "Thank you for my son."

The boy would be beautiful, strong and majestic. She sees him surrounded by blood, and herself and Uther bathed in flames. Her legs go out beneath her as she realizes the price the gods asked of them for what they had wrought this night.

"Any price," she murmurs and leaves the room without looking back.


End file.
